You look like an underwear model
by glass-jars
Summary: Michael goes to visit his old professor. Flirting. Drama. Brief references to past sexual harassment/assault. Michael/Chuck, past Lucifer/Chuck.
1. Kinda really hot

13: Pick an OTP, write a drabble/mini fic on a kiss you'd like to see.

for luciferblogging

I went with some random AU where Chuck is a professor.

...

"Michael?" Chuck straightened his glasses, squinting as though he couldn't quite believe his eyes. He paused in stacking up the class' homework.

Michael let the door close behind him, careful to prevent it from making a loud noise, and came closer to Chuck's desk. He held his hand out and said, "It's been a long time, Professor Shurley." His hand shake was firm, and his skin warm. He didn't sit. Seemed to be waiting for something—a reaction, maybe.

In which case, Chuck didn't disappoint.

"Jesus Christ, you look like an underwear model."

Chuck realized what he'd just said and just about smacked himself in the face, red. "I mean..." He sighed. "Just that... you're much more... How do I put this...?"

"Chiseled, perhaps?" Michael's expression remained neutral, unsmiling but for his eyes, twinkling gray, amused.

"Yeah, something like that." Chuck shook his head. He leaned forward in his chair. Briefly reached out to straighten a little notepad near his elbow and tapped his fingers against the wood of the desk. "You, uh..." He half-smiled. "You were a lot skinnier when I taught American Lit, that's for sure." He let out a nervous little laugh.

Michael practically grinned, white and bright and charming. "To be fair, it's been almost ten years."

"Don't I know it." Chuck grimaced. "Look at me, I've got gray hairs!" He jabbed a fingertip against his temple, and rolled his eyes. Plucked his glasses from his face, folded them, set them on the desktop and said, "Anyway, how can I help you? You need, uh... a recommendation for a job, or something?" He folded his hands neatly in front of him. Straightened his posture, and gained a certain air of professionalism and composure he'd lacked just a few moments earlier. Though he still fidgeted.

Still smiling, Michael leaned against the desk. "Nothing so... administrative... as that." He caught Chuck's eye. Just slightly bit his lip, near the corner, as he grinned again. Barely seemed conscious of it—a little tic, like Chuck's twitchy fingers.

"Oh. Oh God." Chuck flushed pink. "Are—are you? Are you hitting on me?"

Michael shrugged smoothly. (A movement very similar to his older brother's—his older brother, who worked in the same department as Chuck, coincidentally.) "Depends," he said. "Is it working?"

Chuck covered his face with his hands. Ran his fingers back through his hair and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for half a second. Then decided he should say _something_. "Well, you—you're really... charming... honestly. So. Yeah? Kinda. I mean..." He foundered for something more articulate. More intelligent. All he got out was, "You're kinda really hot."

He could have kicked himself in the eye.

But Michael just let out this quiet, low laugh, and flashed his perfect smile, and pushed a stray strand of hair from his face. "Thanks. You're not so bad, yourself. For an old guy."

"Hey!"

Michael seemed on the verge of winking—not that he was the type to ever do something so corny—and his expression was brightly amused. "I'm serious. You're... very cute." He pressed the palms of his hands against the desk more firmly. Seemed about to speak for a moment, then gave up and leaned forward, and pressed a quick kiss to Chuck's lips.

Chuck felt himself turn scarlet. He stammered unintelligibly for a minute. Finally got out a soft, "Oh jeez."

Still smiling, Michael took a step back. "If you want me to leave, I will."

"But?"

"But..." Michael gave that fluid shrug of his again. "I hope you want me to stay..."

Chuck sat very still in his chair for a few drawn out seconds.

Finally, "I don't put out until the third date."

Michael laughed and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Well then," He spoke quietly. Low. "How do you feel about coffee, tomorrow night? Say... after dinner, around eight?"

"Ummmm..." Chuck pretended to check his calendar, when in truth he couldn't have cared less about prior plans. "Sounds good." He smiled, still blushing. "Sounds really good."

"Good." Michael grinned his supermodel grin again, and then he left.

Chuck sat in silence for at least five minutes before slumping in his chair, resting his forehead against the cool wood top of his desk. "Oh God." He rubbed his face. His temples. "Good thing he graduated like five years ago. Jesus. I'm gonna go on a date with a... with a ken doll. God." He couldn't help but smile to himself, though. Truth be told... well, Michael really was charming, and handsome, and well-built, and smart...

A coffee date would be fun.


	2. Ever been to an abandoned building?

"Wait, wait, wait." Chuck stirred his coffee and leaned back in his chair. "You do _what_ now?"

Michael sipped at his Americano before answering, "I'm a firefighter." He smirked into his cup.

Chuck didn't know what to say so he just stared at Michael for a few seconds. He shook his head, smiling to himself, and used his spoon to eat some of the whipped cream off of his mocha. He hummed, almost thoughtfully, but more likely distractedly. "So you put on all that gear and then save people from dying in fires? And then you... what? Rescue kittens from trees?" He had to admit, the image of Michael halfway up a tree with a baby cat in his arms was... appealing.

With a snort, Michael set his coffee aside. "I don't know about rescuing kittens, but I have thrown a mattress out of a window because it was smoldering. Put a sprinkler on it." He laughed quietly. "It kept trying to catch fire, but eventually it was alright. Lesson the be learned—don't fall asleep with a lit cigarette in your hand." He grinned.

"Ah, good to know." Chuck sucked on his spoon and looked down at the tabletop. He decided that Michael was a little too dazzling to look at, and took his glasses off, shoving them unceremoniously into his pocket—scratches decorated the lenses already, so one more set wouldn't hurt. Much better, without them on his face though. He could still see well enough to navigate but Michael's face had gone just blurry enough to be almost unrecognizable. Okay, maybe Chuck needed to look into laser surgery if his eyesight was _that_ bad. (What kind of 43 year old needed _bifocals_, anyway?! Geez.)

Silence fell between them. Chuck cleared his throat, once, and tried to take a drink from his cup. He ended up burning his tongue a little and getting whipped cream on his face. He wiped it off with a hand and stuck his tongue out, nose wrinkling. "This always happens." He rolled his eyes. "When will I learn?" He set about trying to stir the rest of the whipped cream into his mocha so it would maybe help cool the coffee down, and said, "So, other than being a hero, what do you like to do?"

Michael huffed. "I'm not a hero. I just put out fires." He stared into his Americano, thinking about what he wanted to say. Eventually, "I like plants. I have a lot of potted plants in our house, and I like to take care of them." Again with that liquid shrug inherited from his brother. (Body language was totally genetic.) "Nick teases me about it, but I caught him talking to the ficus tree in the living room once." He chuckled, softly.

Chuck let out a snort, and laughed as he said, "Professor Milton is not as mean as he'd like to think, hm?" He tapped his spoon against the table. "You know... He's kind of a hardass and his students all hate him for it, but... He seems okay, to me. Honestly. Passive-aggressive, but kind of... adorable? In a creepy way."

"Well, I'll tell him you said so." Michael grinned. "He'll probably turn red and go punch the garage door to regain his harsh self-image."

"Sounds like _someone_ is insecure in his masculinity."

Michael just continued to grin, sipping at his coffee.

They spent an hour talking about small things. Inconsequential things. Like the time one of Chuck's students filled out a test in red pen, or the time Michael went to order a tangerine Italian soda from Starbucks only to find out they'd run out of seltzer water. It was nice. Chuck actually forgot about his mocha until it was half cold. Decided to drink it anyway, before it got any colder, while he listened to Michael tell a story about an old church that had burned down in the middle of January.

"I ended up carrying this big metal cross—crucial to save, according to just about everyone—out through the front doors, and right when I got outside into the half-melted snow the entire roof caved in and sent up this big shower of splinters and sparks. There was a news van nearby, so I ended up seeing a picture of myself on the television while Lucifer—sorry, Nick—was watching that night, and it was... surreal?" Michael paused. Tilted his empty cup in one scarred hand. "Silhouette of myself and this supposedly priceless cross, lit from behind by flames, with snow and ash falling all around and a lot of steam. Felt strange." He almost laughed, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. Looked up, and smiled at Chuck, and asked, "Have you ever been to an abandoned building?" Something mischievous sparked in his eyes.

Chuck glanced to either side, suddenly moderately concerned. "Uh... no?"

A grin, and Michael stood. "You will today." He gathered up both of their cups and hurried over to the bucket for dirty dishes. Practically skipped back to Chuck, and took his arm, suddenly more boyish and excited than Chuck had ever seen. "Come on, Professor." He led Chuck out of the coffee shop.

Inexplicably, Chuck felt himself blush at being called "Professor." Maybe because Michael was older than a lot of his students, or maybe for some other reason he couldn't quite figure out. He pushed it to the back of his head and followed Michael to his black pickup truck. Michael opened the door for him and even helped him up into the truck—it was much higher up than Chuck normally had to deal with. Chuck felt very small inside the cab.

Once in his own seat, Michael asked, "Ready to go?"

"Um." Chuck folded his hands in his lap. "I guess?"

Michael shot him a big grin and started the engine.


	3. He's not sexy like you're sexy

"Are you sure we're allowed to be here, Michael?" Chuck pulled his thin sweater tighter around himself. It was nearing on ten in the evening, and the air had gone a little chilly with the growing darkness. "I mean, aren't there rules against, like, trespassing?"

Michael shook his head. "Don't worry about it." He almost took Chuck's hand but then, at the last moment, took his elbow instead, and tugged him across the parking lot. They went into the skeletal remnants of the little chapel—blackened beams of wood jutted into the night, surrounded by fallen timber and bricks. Michael rolled his sleeves up, and Chuck couldn't tell in the dark but it looked like he had some kind of tattoo that tapered out just past his elbows. But then Michael had hooked an arm around his waist and _lifted_ him over a pile of burnt wood. As if Chuck weighed nothing.

Chuck clung to Michael until he let him down. Kept a hand on his warm arm, even as they poked around in the remnants. After a few minutes he grumbled, "You know, I coulda gotten over that myself." He half-pouted.

"Better safe than sorry." Michael grinned at him—that beaming, bright smile again. "I know my abilities, but not yours. And I remember..." He paused to smirk to himself, almost laughing but not quite. "I remember that during finals, when you were passing out tests, you almost fell down the stairs in the lecture hall." He fixed his eyes on Chuck, teasing. "You're not exactly agile, and you never have been."

"I'm offended." Chuck crouched down and shoved at a narrow piece of black wood. He sifted his fingers through the crumbly dry ash on the ground. Then realized that maybe he shouldn't stick his hand in dark places where he couldn't see anything, in the burned out remains of a chapel. Just maybe.

He straightened up. Debated wiping his hand on his pants and decided, hey, they were already dirty. A little charcoal wouldn't hurt. He looked around them. The moon lit up the edges of one still-standing brick façade and little bits, here and there, of the trees and parking lot. Other than that, there was no light source. He glanced over at Michael, who stood maybe a foot away. Michael dug around in his pocket and pulled something out. Chuck couldn't tell what it was at first, but then Michael turned it on and Chuck realized it was a digital camera.

Wordlessly, Michael raised the camera and snapped a shot of Chuck standing in the ruins.

For a few seconds afterward, Chuck couldn't see a thing. The flash had essentially blinded him, temporarily. He blinked, and held an arm out. "Let's go back now." He shuffled through the ashes an wood until his foot bumped a piece of timber, then he stopped. "You showed me something cool, so I wanna show you something."

Michael helped him out of the wreck of the church, out onto the pavement. He lifted him again, but that time Chuck expected it. He even appreciated it, since he really could hardly see. Once on the asphalt, though, he needed no help, and made his way over to Michael's truck. He opened the door and clambered in, and shot over his shoulder, "Let's start our second date by driving to the desert and looking at the stars."

"You want to drive to the desert? That's got to be... what, a four hour drive?"

Chuck grinned. "Exactly." He shut the door and waited for Michael to get into the cab before continuing. "By the time we get there it'll be tomorrow, and we can just say it's the beginning of another date, and lay in the back of your truck to look at the stars." He settled into his seat more comfortably, and yawned a little. "I might fall asleep though."

As he put his truck into gear, Michael shook his head. "You are ridiculous." He pulled out onto the road. "But I like your idea. Feel free to nap, and I'll drive."

"Cool."

Chuck did, in fact, fall asleep during the drive. But he woke up before they stopped. Stretched, with a soft mewl. He didn't notice Michael go a little pink at that, but he did notice that Michael appeared to be giving the traffic light in the front of them a death glare worthy of an angry old man. When the light turned green he practically floored it, and Chuck had to flail about for something to hold onto.

When Michael finally slowed, after a particularly harrowing turn, and rolled to a stop on the side of a gravel road, Chuck let out a shaky sigh. Cursed under his breath.

Michael turned to Chuck and gave him a wide smirk. "Don't you like my driving?"

"I liked your driving fine before. Until you decided to break the speed limit!" Chuck unbuckled himself so he could slide out of the truck on trembly legs. He took a moment to regain his composure. "I hope you don't have the same attitude about dating as you do about driving, 'cause if you do I might have to run away." He laughed, though. "Not that I don't appreciate rough handling." Oh, maybe he shouldn't have said that. He flushed, a little.

With a snort, Michael murmured, "Oh, Lucifer has told me all about that."

"What?!"

Michael raised his eyebrows. He hauled himself up into the bed of his truck, leaning his head against the window on the back of the cab. "One day, he came home, and he told me..." Michael tilted his head, thoughtfully. Snapped a finger. "He told me, 'Micah, if you ever get into Professor Shurley's bed, treat him like a sack of potatoes.'" He laughed.

Chuck somehow managed to climb over the side of the truck, using a tire to boost himself, and almost face-planted into the metal lining. Michael caught him at the last minute, though. Chuck thanked him, quietly, then said, "Wait! He really said that? Man, I thought he was a little more... I dunno..."

"Eloquent?"

"No." Chuck settled beside Michael. "Poetic." He shrugged. "You know, sexy."

Michael shot Chuck a bewildered look and crossed his arms. "You think my older brother is _sexy_?"

Quietly, Chuck said, "Not exactly." He fidgeted. Gathered his thoughts. "I mean," He hummed. "He's not sexy like you're sexy. Like... you are just... hot. Wow. Eye candy. But he's got this _demeanor_. Like, he's kinda weird looking, and kinda scary, but the way he acts kind of... draws you in. Like one of those creepy fishes. But better at dancing."

"Better at—He _danced_ for you?"

"God, no!" Chuck half-giggled to himself in the shadows. "It was a Halloween party. He had on these plastic horns, and he was completely hammered. Like, I don't know how he was even standing, he drank so much that night. But he got up on the karaoke stage and just—wow. Wow." Chuck couldn't help but snort at the memory of Professor Milton onstage, swinging his hips like a pro. He shook his head. "That's the only way I can describe it. 'Wow.'"

Michael covered his face. "Oh, gosh." He craned his head back and looked up at the stars, and let his hand fall to his side, barely brushing against Chuck's arm. "Is that...?"

"How we met? Or how we hooked up?" Chuck was tempted to reach out and grab Michael's hand, but he refrained. Lowered his voice near to a whisper. "I knew him, before. Saw him in the department. He taught a class a half hour after me, and always got there early, just as I was ending my lecture." Chuck rolled his eyes. "He would always flirt with me while I packed up my stuff. But nothing ever came of it, you know? But the day after that party, I remember all I could think about was his hips and—I... You probably don't wanna know all my weird fantasies about your older brother, huh?"

"Not really." Michael made a face.

Chuck laughed. "I'll spare you the details. But let's just say... There was a mutual attraction, and the next day he ended up fucking me over the desk in the lecture hall between our classes."

"Oh my _God_."

"Right?" Chuck wrinkled his nose. "Reckless. And probably unhygienic." He stretched out, full-length along the bed of the truck, with his head pillowed on a folded up tarp. Waited for Michael to slide down beside him before continuing. "A few days later, someone walked in on us making out against the chalkboard. Didn't help my reputation."

Michael frowned, crossing his arms behind his head. "Reputation?"

Chuck nodded. "I have a reputation. For being easy. Anyway. Yeah. We had a thing for a few months, but I guess you probably knew that already, since he told you to treat me like potatoes."

With a quiet laugh, Michael focused on the stars. Breathed slowly, and let himself be silent for a while. Eventually, though, he spoke. "The advice about you being a sack of potatoes was mostly a joke, on his part." He smiled. "Later, he said... 'Brother.'" Michael spared a glance at Chuck. "'Brother, if you ever get a chance with Chuck Shurley, treat him special.'" He grinned and stared up at the stars. "'Rough him up, if he asks for it, sure. Toss him around. But be gentle afterwards, and hold him whenever you can. Kiss him every day and don't dump him when you get scared.' And so on. He mentioned something about faithfulness but I didn't catch that part." Michael's expression grew more serious, and turned onto his side. He watched Chuck for a minute—Chuck felt hot and uncomfortable, suddenly.

So he sat up and ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes for a split second, and asked, "Was your brother in love with me?"

Michael shrugged. "I don't know. He never told me. He just came home one day, drunk and miserable, and said, 'Don't ever run away, boy.'" He sighed. "I figured he must have broken up with you, and it turned out I was right."

Chuck was silent. Just the sound of his breathing.

Finally, "He made me cry."

Michael's forehead creased, and he tilted his head against the bed of the truck. Waited for Chuck to go on.

"He called me a whore, and a bunch of other mean names, and he said he was dumping my anxiety-ridden ass, and I... I was hurt. I tried to... I dunno, hug him, probably. Apologize... And he kind of shoved me away and said something rude and ran away."

Chuck chewed on his lip. "And this was in the middle of a class. So it was in front of all these people, and I just got so overwhelmed, with him yelling at me and everyone watching like that, everyone whispering or shocked silent, that when he left... I ended up running to the bathroom to sort of... break down. And I felt really stupid, but... Well he wasn't wrong when he called me anxiety-ridden. He wasn't... entirely wrong to be mad at me, either."

"Wow." Michael sat up. "But even if he had a reason to be angry, that was uncalled for."

Chuck shrugged. "He thought I was cheating on him."

"Were you?"

Silence. Chuck sighed. "No." He let out a puff of air, almost a laugh but a little too scornful. "I _may_ sleep around but I would never intentionally cheat on anyone. Same goes with like, married people. I don't sleep with married people unless I think they're not married—boy, that's always fun. And I don't cheat. Not unless you count being harassed as cheating."

Michael frowned and leaned back on his palms. "Like, sexual harassment? Shouldn't you report that?"

"No point." Chuck craned his head back to look at the stars, and took a deep breath. "They just laugh."

He picked at the hem of his jeans, absentmindedly.

"Anyway, who do I report it to? Just go up and say, 'Hey, random person I may or may not have slept with in the past month, I'd like to report sexual harassment. Someone else I've slept with keeps bothering me and I want them to stop!'"

"Chuck," Michael reached out, and set his hand lightly on Chuck's shoulder. "If someone's bothering you at work, you need to report it, and if they don't take your report seriously, you need to report _them_." His expression was so earnest, and serious. "If these people can't act responsible or do their job, they shouldn't be there at all."

Chuck avoided his eyes, but leaned closer to him. Went so far as to settle his weight against Michael's side and rest his head against Michael's shoulder. He kept quiet. Just breathed, in the moonlight. Let his eyes close and listened to the nighttime bugs and the breeze through the desert. He found Michael's hand and twined their fingers together, and eventually whispered, "I'm sorry for making this into a not very fun date. Sorry."

Michael shook his head. "Don't apologize. It's alright." He paused. Took a moment, but eventually said, "You still love my brother." Not a question, but a fact.

With perhaps a moment of hesitation, Chuck nodded. "I see him every day, but... I _miss_ him. He just ignores me." He grumbled, frustrated. "I really liked him! I wasn't trying to—I don't know. I don't know, I'm on a date with _you_. This is about us. Not Nick. What do you do on a date?"

"Well, we already had coffee, and explored." Michael half-smiled. "Usually there's kissing, but somehow I don't think that's wise in this case."

"Well, why?" Chuck tilted his head up so he could look at Michael. "Change the topic. Talk about something happy, and then we can kiss, right? Just no more of this serious talk about me and your brother and my coworkers."

Michael seemed reluctant.

"Distract me." Chuck reached a hand up. Ran his fingers through Michael's dark hair. "It's two in the morning, and I'm tired, and I don't wanna think about serious things."

So Michael kissed him, gently. Brought a hand to his face, warm and a little calloused, and coaxed him to lay back, just for convenience. Plucked Chuck's glasses from his face, because they were in the way, and set them aside.

The tarp, folded up into a blue square, dug into Chuck's back, so he squirmed around and used it to rest his head on, while Michael rubbed his free hand down his side. Warm, warm, warm. Chuck pushed at Michael's hand—urged it lower, and made encouraging sounds that were almost words but not quite.

Michael pulled away enough to murmur, "I thought you didn't put out until the third date."

"I make exceptions for hot firemen."

Michael laughed.


	4. Some vague idea of coolness

"Can I see your tattoo?"

Michael glanced over his shoulder at Chuck, who was tangled up in his sheets and blinking sleepily. He smiled, and walked back over to the bed. Sat beside Chuck, and kissed him. Chuck hummed, warm and content, and yawned. He put his glasses on. Burrowed into the blankets, all bundled up, leaning against the pillows, and eyed Michael expectantly. Michael rolled his eyes, but tugged his shirt off to bare his back to the pale sunlight streaming through the windows.

Black almond branches, with pale pinkish blossoms, stretched across his back, from his hips, up his spine, across his shoulder blades, hugging his ribs, reaching over his shoulders and twisting down to his elbows. Not a tree, exactly, but many intertwining bits of wood and petals inked into his skin. A latticework of flowers and branches. Michael scooted closer and said, "You can touch, if you want."

Chuck reached out and laid his hand, palm flat, against Michael's warm back. It seemed almost as if he could feel the lines of the tattoos, but also not at all. Couldn't tell if he imagined the slight sensation of raised skin or if the almond branches truly did leave a subtle texture where they bloomed. Either way, they were pretty. He wondered if it had hurt Michael to get so many flowers buzzed into his skin, or if he had barely noticed the pain. Maybe both, maybe neither. Probably the second one. Michael seemed the type to laugh at anything that hurt. To shrug it off. Chuck knew that he, himself, probably would have whined the whole time and would have rubbed his eyes and claimed, "I just got a little dust in them," as an excuse for tearing up. But Michael... he wasn't like that. He was made of tougher stuff than Chuck.

"I can practically _hear_ your low self-esteem." Michael turned around and wrapped his arms around Chuck, laying with him on the blankets. "What are you thinking?" He pressed their foreheads together.

Frowning, Chuck shrugged. His shrug wasn't even half as elegant as Michael's, and he felt small and silly just being in his ratty bed with someone so handsome and poised. But Michael held him close and squeezed him a little, affectionate, until Chuck finally mumbled, "You're way cooler than me." Perhaps... less than detailed. But it got his point across.

Michael narrowed his eyes and pushed his fingers through Chuck's curls. (Short as they were, being that Chuck had gotten a haircut recently.) "You don't have to fall into some vague idea of coolness to be worth something, Professor Shurley." He cupped Chuck's face in one hand. "You know that, right?"

Chuck made a noncommittal hum in the back of his throat.

"I'm serious. It doesn't matter whether you're cool or not. What matters is that you take care of yourself, for yourself, and that you're happy." Michael paused. Grinned. "Anyway, I'm only cool on the outside."

"I guess you _are_ kind of a nerd."

Michael laughed, and kissed Chuck's face. He lay with him a moment before asking, "Do you have any tea?"

Chuck snorted and shoved at Michael, so the younger man rolled off of him. He stood up and stretched his hands over his head, and straightened his underwear before grabbing Michael by the hand and leading him out of the bedroom. He made Michael sit down at the little round table in the middle of the kitchen while he searched the cupboards. After a few minutes, he found an old box of mint tea.

As they waited for the water to boil, Michael stood and latched onto Chuck, resting his chin on his shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist. Michael kissed the curve of Chuck's neck once or twice, softly, and his cheek.

"PDA!" Chuck grinned and poked Michael's nose.

Michael let out a snort—wrinkled his nose, and said, "It's not a public display of affection unless it's out in public." He moved to kiss Chuck, who laughed against his mouth.

The kettle—lacquered orange and bulbous near the middle—squeaked out a pathetic whistle. The cover on the spout was only halfway down, so it couldn't get out more than its sad little whine to say the water had begun to boil. Chuck squirmed away from Michael and poured the water into, not one, but two cups, and dropped the teabags in them. Normally he drank coffee (with a lot of milk and sugar and sometimes chocolate sauce), but mint tea sounded nice. Soothing, or something.

It was. Nice and warm and, well, minty. He cuddled up with Michael on the couch and they watched the news, and some documentary about Vikings. Halfway through the movie, Chuck set his cup aside, turned to face Michael, and piped up with, "Can I come over to your place, sometime?"

Not a little surprised, Michael muted the TV. "My place?" He turned toward Chuck. "But... my brothers live there. Lucifer—Nick. I'm alright with you visiting, whenever you want, but are you sure you'd want to be around Nick? Or Gabriel, for that matter."

"Oh, you heard about that?"

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Of course I did. You know how Gabriel is—he likes to tell everyone he knows when he's slept with someone, one-night stand or not."

"I was drunk." Chuck shrugged. "He seemed alright. If... kind of obnoxious. I was sad, and he was nice to me, you know?"

"That doesn't change the fact that you've slept with three-quarters of my household, if you include me. Are you sure you want to come over?"

Chuck took a deep breath, as he thought. Let it out in a sigh. "I do, I want to come over." He rubbed his face. "It might be awkward, but I wanna see where you live."

Michael glanced at his watch, and hummed. "Alright, well..." He kissed Chuck. "I have to go to my other job soon, but I'll call you and we can talk about it. I'm not at the station this week until Friday, so any time should be alright." Another kiss, and he stood and made his way back into Chuck's bedroom, to gather his things and get dressed.

Quiet, Chuck lingered on the couch. He tucked his legs underneath him and unmuted the television just as some old wrinkly man started talking about social ideals among Viking people. It was very boring, and by the time Michael came out into the living room again, Chuck was half asleep. But he slid off of the couch and followed Michael to the front door, and gave him a sleepy hug and a kiss. "Bye-bye." He waved at Michael, and Michael smiled at him, leaving him with one last kiss on the forehead before heading off down the stairs. Chuck lingered for a moment and then decided he would take a nap.

He turned off the TV, made sure the door was locked, and curled up in bed with his phone on the pillow beside his head, just in case anyone (named Michael) called.


	5. Why do I always like assholes?

"I told Nick to behave himself." Michael walked up the driveway with Chuck, arm-in-arm. "If he decides to be rude, I'll just have to make him leave." He stopped, at the door. Straightened Chuck's tie—Chuck felt silly, but Michael had insisted that dinner was to be the sort of thing you half-dress up for, so there Chuck stood in his nicest jeans and his least battered pair of sneakers and a simple brown tie with his off-white dress shirt and his wool blazer. Michael looked much more at home in his clothes, all nicely pressed and clean.

The thought of eating dinner with his current... _boyfriend_, and his ex, made Chuck a little fluttery in the stomach. Slight twisting in the guts that led to nothing but nervousness and maybe a slight rise in temperature. But Chuck took a deep breath and let Michael shepherd him into the (quite elegant) house, and followed him down the hallway.

As they walked, Michael continually kept his hand light against Chuck's back. It was soothing.

Chuck almost wanted to turn around, when the dining room's doorway popped into view, but he resisted and braced himself and went in after Michael.

The sight of two more people than he'd expected greeted him.

"I thought you said you only lived with Nick." Chuck couldn't keep his eyes from bugging a little. "I didn't realize I'd be eating with strangers—Oh." His eyes settled on a short—well, taller than him but shorter than the others—man with gold eyes. "Hi, Gabriel." He'd hoped seeing one of his old one-night stands wouldn't be too embarrassing, but... Hopes are not always fulfilled.

"...Long time, no see, Chuck." Gabriel raised his hand in an airy wave, and grinned. "You still got those zombie underwear or did you grow up since I last saw you?" He raised an eyebrow, smile morphing to something a little more teasing. A sharp smirk, as he leaned back in his chair. Even tilted his chair back onto two legs.

Michael, standing beside Chuck, flushed a little, though his face paled in comparison to Chuck's bright red blush. Michael almost started laughing, halfway between shock and amusement. "Remind me how you two ended up sleeping together? I've heard the story, but I've forgotten. Something about beer, was it?"

Chuck covered his face. "Yeah, I met him at a bar. We were drunk, and I'd just got there from a funeral. I was lonely!" He peered through his glasses, chewing on his lip. "I thought he was funny."

"What you mean, 'thought'?! I'm hilarious!" Gabriel let his chair fall back onto all fours.

Michael rolled his eyes and ushered Chuck to the table. "You made a castle out of orange soda cans the other day, Gabriel." He sat at the head of the table. "Now, would you fetch the food?"

"I don't see what your point is." Gabriel scooted back so his chair screeched against the tiles, and stood. "But yes, since you asked so nicely, I'll get the food." He disappeared through a swinging door, into the kitchen, and the room suddenly felt much emptier and quieter.

For a moment, no one spoke. But then Michael said, "You know Lucifer and Gabriel, obviously, but," He gestured to another man, seated beside Chuck. "This is my brother, Raphael."

"Nice to meet you." Chuck held his hand out to Raphael. He wondered, as the rather serious man shook his hand, if he was adopted, but decided it didn't really matter. Family is family. "I'm a teacher. What do you do?" Ah, yes. Awkwardly blunt small talk. Smooth.

Michael stifled a smile, set on maintaining a stoic demeanor, as his brother told Chuck very matter-of-factly, "I electrocute people."

Lucifer snorted.

Chuck blinked. "Oh?"

Raphael seemed almost as though he might smile, but his expression never quite shifted fully. Still, Chuck couldn't help but feel as though there was some joke being told at his expense. But after a moment's pause, Raphael elaborated, "I work at the hospital. I don't actually electrocute people, though I am no stranger to using a defibrillator." He folded his hands in his lap, at ease and well-poised. "I do enjoy tinkering with various bits of electronics, however. Magnets, and such. Tesla coils, as well."

"Oh. That's—that's really cool." Chuck tried not to fidget, and wondered if he should say anything else. He tried to keep his eyes on either Raphael or Michael, ignoring Lucifer, who sat diagonally from him.

Luckily, Gabriel burst into the room right as Chuck began to feel like he was somehow failing Michael's expectations. Gabriel exclaimed something Chuck didn't quite catch and set down the many bowls in his arms before throwing down a few wooden spoons and the like. "Soup's on, everyone!" He plopped himself down beside Lucifer, who had reached out for a spoon to scoop pasta onto his plate with. "Don't eat all the shrimps. I want some." He swatted at Lucifer's hand.

Lucifer elbowed him. "I'll eat all the shrimps I damn well please." He dumped a pile of saucy noodles onto his plate, but relented and handed the bowl off to Gabriel without stealing extra shrimp.

Watching them, Michael sighed and rolled his eyes.

"You're both children." Michael passed a dish of something green to Chuck and muttered, "As long as you don't break another vase..." to himself.

Lucifer raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. "Oh, like you're such a fantastic person." He scoffed. "I'm not the one who thinks he's in charge of everyone else. You're not our father, you're our baby brother." He sneered, deigning to poke at his pasta. "Just because you put out fires, you think you're hot shit."

"Please keep the language clean at the table." Michael glared at his brother.

"What did I just say?! Think you're the head of house."

Michael resisted the strong urge to roll his eyes and/or throttle his eldest brother.

Tensions remained high, throughout dinner. Chuck ate too quickly, and sat with an empty plate, unsure of what to do while the others finished. He picked at the edge of his tie, eyes on his lap. After a few moments, Lucifer stood, with his own empty plate in hand, and walked around the table to take Chuck's plate. He whisked the dishes away into the kitchen. Chuck sat confused. The other three seemed a little bewildered as well. But no one spoke. The silence was only broken by steel on ceramic, and eventually the swish of the door.

Lucifer walked through the room, and right back out through the door to the hallway. Wordless and a little sour-faced.

"Uh—excuse me." Chuck pushed his chair back and followed after Lucifer. "Professor Milton—" He caught at Lucifer's elbow, as Lucifer slipped into what looked like the living room. "Wait, please." Chuck held tight, though the taller man attempted to dislodge him.

Finally, with a sigh, Lucifer turned to face him. "What do you want?"

Chuck looked down at his feet. "I—I just want to say... Well, thanks for taking my plate, but that's not it. I..." He rubbed his mouth. "You've been avoiding me so much and... and everything... and I just never got a chance to tell you—"

"Tell me what? Why you were unfaithful?" Lucifer's eyes sparked icy and cold, bright blue.

"No!" Chuck crossed his arms, and kept his eyes down. "No. I never got to say that... Well, I never cheated on you." He wished he had a sweatshirt instead of his stiff blazer and tie. Wanted to bundle himself up and hide. "I never did. I promise."

Lucifer eyed him, suspicious. Shifted where he stood, and planted his hands on his hips. He seemed even bigger than usual, standing like that, with his chin up a little bit, looking down on Chuck. When he spoke, he all but growled. "You expect me to believe you, months after the fact?" He looked heavenward for a split second before refocusing his sharp gaze on Chuck. "A little late, and a little hard to take without a grain of salt." He shook his head.

"I swear." Chuck felt his eyes go all burning and tight and hot, and felt himself closing up. Throat constricting and temperature skyrocketing. "I mean it. I swear. I didn't—I..." He didn't know what to say to make Lucifer believe him. Settled for taking off his glasses, hooking them into his breast pocket. He rubbed at the corner of his eye—carefully, for fear he'd start crying if he so much as touched his face wrong.

"Why are you telling me this? Why do you _care_?" Lucifer's expression of contempt briefly softened, but it froze right up again. "Are you trying to get me back, or are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

Chuck shrugged. Didn't think he could say anything—but he did. "Just... just want you to know. You know? Just. That I didn't... do that. I don't—I don't want you back. Don't want you to feel guilty... Well, you should—you _should_ feel guilty, anyway, for yelling at me in front of over a hundred people but that's not my point. That's not my point. I just wanted you to know."

A long silence.

Lucifer sat on the couch. He patted the cushion, said, "Sit down."

Chuck sat beside him and folded his hands tightly in his lap, unable to keep a slight tremble from his limbs.

"So, you didn't cheat on me." Lucifer settled against the cushions, draping his arm over the back of the couch. He didn't look at Chuck. "And yet, I recall a certain niece of mine telling me that she saw you with the department head." He shook his head. Clicked his tongue. "I don't know how else I'm supposed to take that."

The couch squeaked a little as Chuck shifted where he sat. He ran a hand through his hair. "I—I wasn't. I was with him. But—"

"But, what?"

"But I wasn't cheating on you. I—he... He threatened me. Said... He said he was gonna fire me. Said he would do... worse... if I didn't... you know." Chuck shrugged. "He's bigger than me, and stronger, so I just kind of... didn't fight back or say no. Couldn't"

Lucifer frowned. His posture had gone from languid to strangely rigid, though he still sat the same way, draped across the couch. He didn't speak. Instead, waited for Chuck to continue. When no continuation was forthcoming, he finally murmured, "Are you telling me the head of the English department assaulted you?"

"Not... exactly?"

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"

Chuck's nails dug into his palm but he couldn't bring himself to unclench his hand. "Well, Meg showed up before he could... get very far."

Lucifer closed his eyes. "Meg simultaneously helped you and hurt you without meaning to, all at once." He sighed. "She truly _is_ related to me. I'm so proud, I can't bring myself to be irritated."

Chuck snorted.

"So, perhaps I shouldn't have shouted at you with an audience, and perhaps true communication at an earlier point would have been beneficial, but I just want you to know that I'm withholding any judgment or decisions for the time being." Lucifer paused. "Though, of course, those who disregard consent or lack thereof are, to me, the filthiest scum on the bottom of my shoes, and I am disinclined to disbelieve you."

Narrowing his eyes, Chuck said, "Thank you?"

Lucifer laughed. "Don't thank me quite yet." He finally looked at Chuck, and the blue ice in his eyes had melted a little. He leaned close, conspiratorially. "However, I'd like you to know that, if you weren't dating my boring little brother, I would likely rush to buy you hundreds of red roses, and beg your forgiveness with an endless supply of extremely expensive chocolates and champagne. And sex. A lot of that, as well." Lucifer let out a long-suffering sigh. "It's a shame you're not still single. Though I suppose I've caused my own suffering."

"Wait, are you apologizing to me?"

Raising an eyebrow, Lucifer smirked. "It appears I am."

Chuck flushed a little, and frowned. "Well... Well, stop. It's embarrassing."

Lucifer rose to his feet. He ruffled Chuck's hair and sauntered over to the doorway. He paused briefly with his hand on the wood frame and said, "Give me a call when you and Michael break up and I'll be at your apartment in a flash, arms full of flowers and alcohol." He left the room.

"Why do I always like assholes?" Chuck laid himself out on the couch—he fit on it entirely, with no uncomfortable scrunching up. Let out a sigh. "Life was so much simpler when I avoided commitment." He stared up at the ceiling, and presumably a chandelier, though he couldn't see it well enough without his glasses to make out the details. It was white, though. And sparkly. That much, he could tell.

He sighed again.


	6. You have terrible taste in men

"Say what, now? _Wow_." Gabriel crossed his arms, rolled his eyes, and let out an exasperated puff of air. "You _do_ realize you've transcended the Kingdom of Jerkoffs and landed yourself right in the Garden of Douchedom, right?" He leaned on the table. "Like, seriously. For real."

Reluctant as he was to agree, Chuck had to admit that Gabriel was right, with all his colorful turns of phrase. "You know, he's got a point, you guys." Chuck wished even more for his missing sweater, desperate to bundle himself up into a little pocket of warmth and comfort. "It—making me choose is super... lame." His mouth twisted.

"For the record," Michael stood straight and a little stiff. "I'm against it. But _Nicholas_ insisted."

Lucifer bristled. "_Excuse_ me? Don't try to blame this all on me—"

"How about the both of you shut your traps!" Gabriel, despite being shorter than all of his brothers, seemed to expand in his irritation and exasperation. Glowering, he stepped nearer to Chuck's side and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Your incessant howling back and forth has been getting on my nerves! You—" He pointed to Lucifer. "Have been nothing but a pathetic ass for _months._ And you!" A finger to Michael. "You need to learn to ignore his prodding, 'cause you're just as annoying when you're pissed off!" He faced Chuck more fully, with narrowed eyes but a much more sympathetic expression. Shook his head. "You have terrible taste in men." He hooked his arm through Chuck's and led him from the room.

As they left, Chuck stuttered, "My taste in women is terrible too, so it's okay."

Gabriel laughed at that.

Michael and Lucifer were left standing alone in the drawing room.

In the hall, Gabriel hissed, "God, you're such a pushover." He dragged Chuck off toward the kitchen, grip near bruising but not quite.

"I can't help it!" Chuck whined. "I'm just really good at being a doormat." He stumbled on the door sill and paused before saying, "It's hard to stand up for yourself when your self-esteem is equivalent to a... a depressed sea cucumber's."

Gabriel gave him an odd look, as he began to rummage through the cupboards.

Chuck sat at the island in the middle of the kitchen. Rested his folded arms on the countertop. He sighed and hunched over so his forehead touched the stainless steel surface as well. It soothed him, a little, with its coolness. He listened to Gabriel mess around for a while, with his eyes downturned, but after at no more than three minutes his curiosity got the best of him, so he sat up straight and watched Gabriel set two pieces of bread, freshly sliced and thick with circles punched from the centers, into a heavy cast iron pan.

"Why does that bread have a hole in it?" Chuck made a face. "Are you trying to make a decorative grilled cheese?"

In response, Gabriel laughed.

"Eggs in a basket." He prodded at the bread.

Chuck nodded. "I'll just pretend I know what that is."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. He glared at his bread, as if willing it to cook faster, and when he finally deemed it brown enough, he flipped it and cracked an egg into the hole in the middle. He tapped his toe impatiently, and Chuck couldn't help but smile. Gabriel narrowed his eyes, but he grinned. And when he decided his egg-toast combo was done enough he tossed it onto a plate and sat down across from Chuck.

"So."

Chuck frowned. He didn't particularly want to have a Serious Conversation with a one night stand from the year before who also happened to be the brother of two of his exes.

Obviously, Gabriel didn't know or didn't care, and continued to speak as he ate. "You're in a bit of a predicament." He huffed out a noisy breath. "Ordinarily, my advice would be to block them both on Facebook and ignore them for the rest of their lives. You know, pull a Chuck Cunningham—same name, right—and disappear entirely from their lives. They're not worth it. Trust me. But..." He licked some grease from his thumb and smirked. "That's your choice. And it's not so simple, is it?"

"Ugh. Not really, no." Chuck took off his glasses and set them on the countertop, rubbing his face. "Especially considering I _work_ with Nick. Lucifer. Whatever I should call him."

"I like to call him Lucifer because he's an asshole, but Nick words too."

Chuck stifled a small laugh, and nodded. "He _is_ kind of an asshole." He groaned and slumped down again, letting his forehead bump a little against the counter. "I never should have started dating anyone. Commitment makes things so..."

"Boring?"

"Well, I was gonna say 'complicated.' But... sure." Chuck scratched the back of his head.

Gabriel just grinned.

Chuck sighed. He rubbed his face again before shoving his glasses back on. "You know what, I'm not gonna choose. This is—this is ridiculous! If all I'm gonna get from a relationship is higher stress levels and the occasional breakup-induced panic attack, I'm not gonna bother!" He stood up with a clatter, and almost knocked his stool over, but caught it at the last minute.

"That's my boy!" Gabriel clapped. "I'll back you up—I'll drive you home, too. Michael's got a temper, but it takes a moment to... _blossom_... So I'll get you out of here quick, okay?"

Pausing, Chuck bit his lip. He felt less certain, suddenly. "That sounds... scary?"

Gabriel hopped off his own stool and came over to Chuck, grasping his arm. "Hey." He gave him a smile. "You're safe with me, and it's more likely Micah would get mad at Luci than you." He patted Chuck's back, firmly. "You still probably don't wanna see them beat the shit out of each other."

"...You're right. I _don't_ want to see that."

"I'm always right."

Gabriel kept close by Chuck's side, as Chuck made his way—rather apprehensively—down the hallway. For a moment, in the dimly lit space, he paused. Whispered, "What if Lucifer tries to..." He gestured vaguely.

"Hurt you?" Gabriel made a face. "Michael would probably punch him. Also he can't run very fast."

"Neither can I."

"Shhhh," Gabriel took hold of the back of Chuck's neck—not in a possessive or painful way, but in a cradling way, with his fingers warm against the base of Chuck's skull. "You'll be okay. I promise. I may not look like much, but I swear I'll keep you safe from anything."

Chuck gave him a nervous laugh. "What are you, some kind of guardian angel?"

Gabriel shrugged, mouth twisting in amusement. "I like to keep people safe from assholes." He winked. "Even if I can be kind of an asshole, myself."

"You're just obnoxious."

"Gee, thanks." Gabriel gave Chuck a slap on the back. "Go get 'em, tiger."

With a deep breath, Chuck took the last few steps toward the living room and threw open the door. Immediately, Lucifer and Michael focused their attention on him, from where they stood by the fireplace. Michael seemed to expect the worst, and Lucifer looked strangely smug. But just a little uncertain around the eyes. Chuck stared at them for a moment, stomach wobbly. He stepped forward. Twisted his tie between shaky fingers. He took a deep breath, just as tremulous as his hands, and blurted out, "I'm breaking up with both of you."

There was a moment of shocked silence, while Lucifer's eyes widened and Michael nodded, hard-eyed.

For a moment, Chuck thought he might throw up.

He ran from the room, instead, down the hall. Gabriel followed close at his heel, and as Chuck reached the front door he could just make out a muffled shout of, "This is your fault!"

He left the house before anything else could happen. Scurried to Gabriel's car, and waited for the other man to catch up with him.

Gabriel unlocked the car so Chuck could toss himself in the passenger seat, and almost before they had buckled themselves in, he sped off down the driveway, high-beams blasting out their blue-white spotlights on the road.

Chuck slumped down in his seat with a deep sigh.

While they drove, Gabriel sang along with the radio—U2 and Depeche Mode and Modest Mouse. Must have been a mixtape. He even roped Chuck into smiling and humming along. The time passed quickly in that way, and Chuck was almost surprised when Gabriel pulled up in front of his apartment building. He'd expected to be on the road longer. But there they were, parked on the dark street.

Gabriel grabbed Chuck's arm before he got out of the car. Leaned over to peck him on the cheek and said, "Take care of yourself, kid."

"I'm the same age as you," Chuck muttered. But he gave Gabriel a quick hug and left him there in his car. Walked up the steps, and waved briefly before pulling out his keys.

Once Chuck opened his door, Gabriel flashed his headlights and drove away.

Chuck went straight to bed.


	7. He smiled his most charming smile

Chuck couldn't help but sigh for what seemed like the billionth time that day, as he hoisted his messenger bag onto his shoulder. He watched a few straggling students leave the room, fingers crossed hoping no one would try to talk to him because he was not up for speaking—hell, he'd even shown the class a movie so he wouldn't have to lecture them. Managed to say, "I'm not feeling well, so we're gonna watch _Godzilla vs. Mothra_." before collapsing into the desk chair and playing the movie. Of course, there had been some grumbles from the front rows, but for the most part the class seemed willing to humor him. He just wanted them to continue humoring him as they filtered through the doors.

Unfortunately, one young woman stopped before leaving the room.

Chuck willed him to leave.

No such luck. The girl, with cropped hair dyed blue, towered over Chuck at over six feet tall. She looked disgruntled.

"Can I help you?" Chuck fiddled with the buckle on the strap of his bag.

For a few seconds, he got no reply. But eventually the young woman asked, "Professor Shurley, are you alright?"

"Bad breakup." Chuck couldn't stop himself from fidgeting. He worried, for some reason, that Lucifer would seek him out in his classroom, despite the fact that he'd avoided him for the better part of three months. "Listen, if we're gonna have a conversation, can we have it in my office?"

A nod.

"Good." Chuck hurried to the door, briefly holding it open for his student. She followed him down the hall, and said nothing when he nearly tripped over his own feet. (Thought he'd seen Lucifer lurking down his hallway but it had only been the Women's Studies professor.) Finally, though, they made their way to Chuck's little nook of an office. Chuck sat at his desk and she sat across from him.

They were silent for a few minutes.

Then, "I'm Annie, by the way." She crossed her legs, seemingly comfortable in the stiff chair. "I just wanted to make sure you're alright. I know I'm just some kid taking your class, but ever since... Well. I worry about you, I guess. Sorry. Sounds kind of silly, considering you're so much older than me."

"Well, Annie. That's... very sweet of you, really." Chuck folded his hands on his desk. He didn't meet her eye. "I'm okay, though. Mostly. I've just been a little stressed lately, that's all."

She nodded, dark eyes perceptive and understanding. After a while, she spoke again, voice quiet but clear. "Did something happen with Professor Milton? Other than—you know."

"I'm sorry, Annie, I don't think—"

"No, I'm sorry, for asking." She shook her head. "It's none of my business."

Chuck held his tongue. He sighed, softly, and closed his eyes. "Nothing happened. Not—not really." He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. "You don't have to worry. It's just me being paranoid of... arguing. Or something."

Annie nodded.

She shifted in her seat. "Well, I'm sorry for bothering you. I just wanted to check with you—also, Friday's homework isn't due until next Wednesday, right?"

"Thanks. Um, yeah, I think so." Chuck opened a drawer in his desk and sifted through it, looking for a little planner. He checked the date, and nodded. "Yep. Next Wednesday. Two to five pages."

Annie stood and smiled at Chuck. "I hope you feel better next time we have class."

"Thanks." Chuck gave her a stiff little wave, as she left his office.

The door shut with a gentle click, and Chuck deflated in his chair. He sat very still, half-wising he could melt into a puddle just to not have to deal with real life, for five minutes at least. He checked his watch. Just about forty minutes left of his office hours, but he doubted anyone would come to talk to him, so he took a moment to reach for the lamp by his computer and turn it on. Then he stood and moved to turn off the lights. In the dim glow of his green-shaded banker's lamp, he returned to his chair, and tried to relax.

He woke up to the buzz of his phone. For a moment, as he slowly regained consciousness, he wondered where he was. But then he recognized his office and straightened with a groan. Checked his watch, and two hours had passed. He groaned, and answered his phone with a sleep-hoarse "What?"

"Chuck?"

He blinked. "Michael?"

There was silence for a few seconds, but eventually Michael said, "I just wanted to apologize. I should have completely opposed Lucifer's insistence that you choose, instead of just saying I disagreed."

"You're right." Chuck sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "Thank you for apologizing."

On the end of the line, Michael let out a relieved breath. It crackled in Chuck's ear, with the poor connection. Another long pause between them, and Michael spoke low and quiet—"I know you're probably busy, but I'd like to make it up to you, and take you to dinner. On me."

Chuck considered turning him down, but the idea of a free dinner, likely at someplace fancy, appealed to him too much. "...Fine." He straightened up in his chair. "I'm on campus right now, but you can pick me up from my apartment in an hour." He hung up. Slipped his phone into his pocket before letting out an incoherent noise reminiscent of an unhappy dog. He covered his face with his hands. He'd never hung up on anyone like that, without saying goodbye. That kind of self-assuredness was strange to him. But somewhat thrilling.

He went about making sure he had all his stuff and left his office. He almost missed the bus, but got across the street just in time to rush on. Of course, it was crowded, so he found himself standing very near the front, clutching onto a metal pole for support as the bus rumbled down the road. He almost fell when the bus braked particularly hard at the bottom of a hill, but righted himself at the last minute, and kept steady until his stop.

As he stepped off the bus, it started to rain. Of course. Chuck ran up to his apartment, and avoided getting too wet. He still stuck his head in a towel, and had to comb his hair after. He spent a few minutes getting ready—changed from his slightly damp jeans and blazer into a nicer (if threadbare) suit. It seemed he had barely been home for fifteen minutes when the doorbell rang. Though it had been about a half hour. Chuck didn't bother to put on his tie. Hurried to the front door, instead. Then realized he didn't want to seem overly eager, so he waited a few seconds before opening the door.

Michael stood on the doorstep, red umbrella shielding him and his deep blue clothes from the now-furious rain. He smiled his most charming smile at Chuck, and held out a narrow bouquet of white peonies and lavender. He seemed suitably ashamed and apologetic, so Chuck took the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, under Michael's umbrella. He let Michael take his arm and lead him to the car, but that was all. Nothing more affectionate, not yet.

Chuck was determined that he would be stubborn in his position, and not give in to affection for at least a day.

Of course, his resolve was not so strong, and at the end of the night he let Michael kiss him on the cheek. For a moment, with the front door at his back and Michael's body warm and close, Chuck wished that he could just go right back to the way things had been the first week with Michael, all holding hands and kissing and cuddling.

He said goodbye to Michael, who kissed his hand, and went into his apartment.

The rain on the windows sounded louder than usual, Chuck thought.

He stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, and sat next to one of the baseboard heaters. Even though he'd eaten less than an hour before, he kind of wanted to order pizza. But he also didn't want to move, so he just sat on the floor, occasionally shifting around when he got too hot on one side. After a few minutes of that, he decided he should do something productive. Like grade homework—except he had no homework to grade, not until the next week. He sighed and wandered around his apartment. Not many places to wander. He stood in the closet for a while, looking at the raincoat he'd forgotten he owned. He shook his head and made his way to the kitchen, to make himself a cup of hot chocolate.

He put a bit of rum in it for good measure.

With his spiked cocoa, Chuck retreated to his bedroom. He sat bundled up in his blankets, mug on the nightstand and computer on his lap, and watched_ Twin Peaks _for a few hours, while the rain outside only grew louder. He wondered, briefly, when he would see Michael next. Felt fairly sure Michael would be at the station for the next twenty-four hours. He'd mentioned working on Tuesday and Thursday that week. So, maybe Wednesday...? Though Michael would be tired on Wednesday. Maybe Saturday. Chuck frowned and put the thought out of his head. No use dwelling on something he was supposed to be neutral toward, anyway.

He returned to watching his show and realized he had no idea what was going on, so he went to bed.


	8. God! You're a dork

"Aren't you going to ask if I've slept with anyone?"

Michael looked up from his sandwich with a frown. "No." He shook his head, and set his lunch aside, expression serious. "It's none of my business." He almost reached for Chuck's hand across the table, but held back a moment. But then, he laced their fingers together, carefully. When Chuck didn't let go, he said, "If you want to tell me, that's fine, but it's not my business to ask."

Chuck stole a chip from Michael's plate. "Okay."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. But eventually Chuck couldn't stop himself from saying, "You can come over to my place for dinner if you want."

A beat of silence, then Michael smiled. "Chuck..." He raised his eyebrows. "Are you...?"

"I'm horny." Chuck pouted, trying hard not to grin.

Michael couldn't help but laugh. He squeezed Chuck's hand—kissed his knuckles, and the back of his hand. "You are so _very_ predictable, Professor Shurley."

"I can't _help_ it!" Chuck made a face and stole another chip. "You're attractive, we're sort of together but not really—I mean, it's the logical way to go." He slid down the seat, around to Michael's side. (It was one of those round tables with the bench that goes all the way around without a break.) "Humor me."

"I'll humor you." Michael kissed his temple. "Whatever you'd like, just ask." He grinned, and dropped his voice. "Your wish is my command."

Chuck pushed at his face, trying not to laugh. "God! You're a dork." He leaned against Michael, though. Smiled. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, but after a bit of deliberation—and after transferring the last of Michael's chips to his own plate—he spoke again. "I want you to come over for dinner tonight, at five. I wanna order pizza and watch a fake documentary about bigfoot and then I wanna have sex, and I want you to spend the night so we can cuddle, and in the morning I'll make you coffee and eggs, and then you'll go home, and we'll still both be single."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Michael picked at his sandwich idly. "So," He ripped off the crust and ate it. "Does that make this an open relationship?" He smiled, slipping an arm around Chuck's waist. "Or are we more like 'friends with benefits'?"

For a second, Chuck pretended to think. He grinned. "Friends with benefits, I think."

"Fuck buddies, then."

Chuck nearly choked on a potato chip. Michael laughed and patted his back, all teasing smiles and warmth. Chuck wrinkled his nose, cleared his throat, and muttered, "I think that's the first time I ever heard you use the F-word." He snorted. "Michael Milton, so proper, saying 'fuck.'" A shake of his head, and he smooshed himself against Michael's side, leaning his head on his shoulder. Michael tightened his arm around Chuck and kissed the top of his head.

"Only for you."

Chuck laughed.

After a few minutes longer, they parted ways. Chuck needed to get back to campus for his class and Michael needed to get back to his part-time job at the bookstore. (He liked to augment his income from firefighting by shelving books. Not that he _needed_ to augment his income, considering the wealth of his family.) Chuck hugged Michael goodbye when Michael dropped him off at the college. Michael drove off with a wave.

For the next few hours, Chuck felt buoyant and calm. Like a balloon on a gentle breeze, tied to a tree branch so it wouldn't blow away.

He felt a certain relief, that he could be on good terms with Michael.

And perhaps, soon, their relationship would regain its proper footing, and they could be a little more than friends with benefits, but for that moment he felt fine and pleased.


End file.
